Planned Attacks
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: He's not sure why people think him above desire. Cullen's a man and as weak to it as any other man in the world. He's just much worse at expressing it than others.
1. Chapter 1

**Planned Attacks  
**

**A Word**: Request for Cullen being bad at flirting.

.

* * *

.

"Nice work," Cullen says eventually after they've put a mile or so between them and the bloodied remains of bandits who had clearly mistaken the Inquisition for an easy target. The sun beats down on them all, and Cullen's suffering in his heavy armor more than usual. It's why he finds his mouth running on with what he had meant as an honest compliment. "I wouldn't have thought pike twirling to be taught to mages before, but you are an expert at it."

Sand makes the most interesting sound when tread upon. A sound that can't really be appreciated until everything else has gone so utterly silent. Cullen appreciates the sound even as he feels a groan build up in his chest at the words that had come out without thought. A half-practiced line he'd decided _against_ using last week, but had been just practiced enough to slip out without his leave when given a chance.

"Wait. I didn't-" Cullen draws in a deep breath and doesn't try to delude himself into thinking the heat he can feel suffusing his face has anything to do with the heat of the desert around them. "Maker, can I claim the sun has addled my mind?"

"Dear Commander, you can say whatever you wish," Dorian drawls in a way that Cullen knows is nothing but trouble. He doesn't even have to turn to look at the other man to know exactly how wide and wicked his grin is right now. In fact it's probably best he doesn't. Who knows what seeing the handsome man looking like that will do to him on top of all this heat. "Just as I can say you actually meant that the way it sounded. Oh, I'll be the envy of the whole keep when I get back! Until you accidentally flirt with someone else that is. Again."

Cullen smiles and knows it to probably look as painful as it feels, but allows Dorian to think what he will regardless. Having the man think Cullen spoke without thought is much more preferable to him knowing Cullen had meant the poor line as it sounded after all.

.

.

"Allergic?" Cullen repeats dumbly as Madame de Fer continues to closely watch the bubbling potion she's holding over a green flame.

"Oh yes, Commander. It's shocking, and I was quite surprised myself," she doesn't look surprised at all as she gently begins to shake the glass beaker in a circular motion. The blue liquid inside is lightening slowly. "I have never heard of an elf having allergies either. Especially not to such an innocuous plant. Given how much time Solas spends in the wilds I am rather surprised he did not know of this before hand."

"Ah," Cullen shifts and is glad that the woman's attention seems to be fully on her potion making as he discretely tucks away the single sprig of Andraste's Grace into the back of his belt. Under his coat so it can't be seen. "It's common in parts of Ferelden, but I hear it is rather hard to find elsewhere. Perhaps he's just never come across it before."

"Hm," Vivienne hums thoughtfully and there's a flash in the beaker. When she pulls it out of the flame the liquid is clear and void of all color. Her eyes are amused and all too knowing when she turns to look at him even as she's reaching for a cork stopper. "Then perhaps it would be best to make sure the flowers stay scarce in Skyhold."

"Yes," Cullen agrees as she walks away and he follows with what has to be a noticeable slump in his shoulders. "I think that can be arranged."

There's any number of fireplaces between the undercroft and the infirmary after all, but Cullen rather thinks he should just throw the damn flowers over the ramparts and be done with the whole mess.

.

.

"Has it been a while?" Blackwall asks as Cullen shakes out his left arm. The numbness tingling up from the powerful overhand strike he'd, rather stupidly, decided to block with his shield. "I imagine you're rather busy to take to the practice ring."

There's a note of disapproval there that Cullen doesn't think he's imagining as they square off again, and normally that would be more than enough to get his back up. Sadly, he can't even get angry over the implication because it is true. He spends far too much time stuck with papers and maps and it's showing despite his best efforts. "There is also the fact that there are few enough men capable of making this worth my time."

The Warden spins his sword and nods after a moment of quiet thoughtfulness. An acceptance of the explanation as he widens his stance and settles into position. "Very true, Commander. Feel free to call on me at any time if you have need of another to test your blade with."

"Oh? I can count on your aid when I need it?" Cullen asks and immediately regrets it. No, immediately regrets the twist he puts on the words that goes over the line of any man's ability to laugh off as a joke.

"Well, I can't say you won't get a boot thrown at your head if you try to wake me," Blackwall lunges. Deceptively fast for his size and the weight of his broadsword, and Cullen doesn't have time to be embarrassed that his flirtation has been ignored entirely. A small mercy.

.

.

The Iron Bull is not given to subtlety or prudishness. An assumption based entirely off his appearance and usually solidified within minutes of talking to him. Cullen can see the qunari across the tavern floor as the bartender gets him a mug of something. Cullen doesn't quite care what so long as it's wet and doesn't burn his tongue too much. He sees the broad form of Varric near Bull, and the hunched form of Cole is nearly hidden between them. He doesn't hear what the man's actually saying until he gets closer though.

"-who'd turn down the chance to have the ride of their life?" Bull finishes with a broad and very lewd gesture that's unmistakable as Cullen pulls out one of the stools to sit. "How bout it Commander, what would you say to riding The Bull?"

"Yes," Cullen answers without thought and the looks he gets from the others is enough to make him start to back track fast out of habit. "Wait, what did I agree to?"

Bull laughs. Loud and pealing as he reaches out to slap him on the shoulder hard. "Now this is what makes you good at your job. Bit of humor never hurt. And now," the laughter stops quickly as he gives them all a leer, "I've got a red-headed serving wench to see."

"Curly," Varric says with a sad shake of his head and an all too brightly amused grin over the rim of his ale, "you are one of the saddest pieces of work I've ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on, and I knew a particularly bad poet who frequented the Hanged Man. How do you do it?"

"I don't, and that seems to be the problem," Cullen picks up his tankard and stares into it with consideration. There's not as much as he'd like but he's not entirely sure he wants to be drunk tonight anyway. "I'm either jesting or I get it wrong."

"They're nice and pleasing to look at. It'd be nicer and more pleasing to be with. It should be easy but it's not," Cole utters without looking up. Seemingly fascinated with the grain of wood on the table and Cullen wonders if the boy has even drunk from the tankard someone always inevitably gets him. "Why is it not so easy anymore? It shouldn't be this hard to talk."

"You think about it too much, and thinking about these things just isn't your strong suit," Varric answers as if Cullen was the one to say something and not Cole. It's disconcerting, but not as much as it used to be. He's gotten too used to it. "Leave the planning and strategies for the war table. Give being bluntly honest a whirl. If you don't think about it before hand you're less likely to trip yourself up talking. Might even surprise yourself into bedding someone."

Cullen lowers his tankard to stare at the dwarf who shrugs. "Hey, stranger things have happened around here. You can't deny that."

He can't, and that shouldn't be as comforting as it is.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Planned Attacks  
**

**A Word**: Request for Cullen being bad at flirting.

.

* * *

.

It's a plan, and Cullen feels settled to have it in place as he walks briskly towards the gardens. A poor plan, according to Varric, but Cullen doesn't let the man's doubt deter him.

"And what shall we be wagering today?" Dorian asks with a smirk as Cullen settles into the seat across from him. The board is already set and one piece is out of place. Dorian has arrogantly assumed the first move, as usual when Cullen dares to show up later than him to their now regular matches. The man tents his finger before his pursed lips. All confidence and bravado that isn't yet warranted when it comes to this game. He loses far more than he wins. "The contents of your purse, or maybe some of that fine _unlabeled_ wine you so cruelly refuse to tell the source of?"

Cullen taps his fingers on the edge of the small table and considers. Considers which strategy he will beat Dorian with today and what he should say next. He settles, eventually, on moving a pawn and deliberately _doesn't_ think about what to say. Letting the words roll off his tongue without consideration the way too many have been harping on him to do more often. "How about the loser of this match gets put on his knees."

Speaking without thought is easy enough. Cullen's done it before. What is not easy is the moment after. When his mind realizes what he's said and freeze. Goes still with doubt and horror. It is always the moments after, when the doubts prick up, that Cullen finds himself stuttering a little and trying to take back those words.

A bad habit, according to Varric, that he dearly needs to break and Cullen's been trying. He forces himself to keep his eyes on the board and think about all the many moves Dorian can make next. And then he thinks of how he can counter each and every single one of them. A long process just complicated enough to keep him from thinking too hard on the proposition he's just made. Long enough to let it sink into the silence between them. To let Dorian realize Cullen's not going to fluster and immediately claim he doesn't mean it like _that_.

"You," Dorian says and then stops. He sounds flustered himself and at a total loss for words. Cullen dearly wants to see the expression on the normally composed man's face, but knows he'll lose his own confidence -shaky as it is- if he were to try. Dorian's laugh starts out uncertain but ends mostly composed. "Why, Commander, I don't think you realize how much trouble your tongue could get you in with people who do not know you as well as I."

Cullen looks up and it's a mistake. Dorian is composed as usual. Laughing and mocking in his own special way. A glint of wry humor in his eyes as he dismisses Cullen's meaning as nothing more than an unintentional slip of the tongue. The urge to laugh along with him and concede to the man's expectation is strong enough to rattle his determination, and Cullen can feel his tongue grow thick and awkward. "I was-

"He was planning to lose on purpose. To show how much better his mouth is when he's not expected to use it for words," Cole says and Cullen doesn't startle only because he was half expecting the intrusion. It doesn't stop his thoughts from turning baleful though. A turn the boy notices immediately as he turns defensive. "Varric said you were failing at talking again. Flailing, falling, dead man sitting, go help him Kid that's too painful to watch."

The blunt words bring a wave of heat to Cullen's face that he hopes can be seen as just the chilled wind of the day nipping at his cheeks. Cole perfectly mimics the tone and cadence of Varric's speech and Cullen can't help the rueful smile. He shakes his head and supposes the help was needed. "Yes, thank you, Cole. I, ah, think I can handle myself from here."

Cole gives him an unreadable stare that shifts to Dorian before he nods. Lips curling up slightly in pleasure before he walks away. Only when he's sure the boy is gone does Cullen force himself to turn back to face Dorian. The man isn't watching Cole at all, but his brown eyes are fixed on Cullen. Expression mildly amused which is Dorian's default face for when he doesn't want to give anything away.

"I do believe it is your turn," Cullen says after clearing his throat. He gestures at the board before them, but Dorian doesn't so much as glance at it as his mask melts away into a sharp and shrewd look.

"Does it matter? It seems the outcome of the game was decided before hand," Dorian waves one long fingered hand over the board. Showy as anything else he does. "Why should I sully by reputation with a cheap win?"

It was not Cullen's best thought out plan, but it had seemed viable this morning. Of course, nothing in his plan had addressed the possibility on being called out on any part of it. He should have known better really. Cullen ignores the added heat in his face and the way his stomach sinks as he stands. He forces a smile and inclines his head in apology as he backs away. Determined to hide himself away at his desk for the next few weeks. "Of course, my apologies. Perhaps we can play another time then."

Cullen retreats rapidly. Keeping his expression slightly pleasant by will alone as he reaches the door leading from the gardens to the keep. It's in the small room between it and the main hall that a hand grabs Cullen's arm. Stopping him from opening the second door as the first closes with a bang. The room close and warming quickly with two bodies in its tight confines.

"Now that's _not_ what I meant at all, Commander," Dorian says a tad out of breath from the short sprint. He's entirely too close even for the smallness of the room, and he doesn't let go of Cullen at all. His eyes are bright with greed and a slow simmering heat when Cullen turns to face him. Lips pulling up into a devastating smirk as he steps closer. Placing his other hand against Cullen's side, high up where Cullen can feel the tips of his fingers slipping into the gap of his armor. "I was merely going to suggest we skip the game entirely if you'd already decided on the outcome you desired most. As surprising as your interest is I honestly cannot say I would mind either outcome. And debating which is more preferable would do absolutely dreadful things for my concentration so it's just as well I spare us from having to focus on game strategy."

Cullen steps forward. Hands catching on Dorian as he crowds him up against the door, and the man doesn't flinch or look away. There's a lingering hint of sweetness on his lips from something that Cullen doesn't have time to analyze because Dorian's lips are parting for him. His tongue is every bit as wicked at play as it is with his words as he takes over the kiss with a ferocity that makes lust spark sudden and sharp in Cullen.

When they break apart Cullen is the one pressed up against the opposite door, and Dorian's hands are fisted in the fur of his cloak. His eyes are very clear and determined as he forcefully turns Cullen around and _pushes_ him. "My chambers, now, if you don't want to cause a scene that will ruin your good name, Commander."

"I have no good name," he says in protest even as he's all but marched through the main hall. Filled, as ever, with visitors and pilgrims alike. All looking for a bit of time with the Inquisitor. And Varric. Ensconced in his chair in the corner with a tankard of something he raises to Cullen and Dorian with a smug smirk that he _knows_ is trouble.

"Fishing for compliments is unbecoming," Dorian says with a snort, and the barely felt press of fingertips on his lower back becomes a whole hand once they are in the relative safety of the stairs leading up to the quarters reserved solely for the Inquisition. Two hands that slide _down_. "Especially as I am about to make a very large number of people stupendously jealous."

He squeezes again for good measure and doesn't quite let go even as Cullen begins to climb the stairs. A pleased hum filling the stairwell and making Cullen feel warm for different reasons.

It was not a very good plan, but it has worked out well enough Cullen supposes as he's pushed firmly into Dorian's quarters. He really cannot have asked for more of it than that.

.

.


End file.
